


What You Aren't Wearing

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A Smidge of Voyeurism, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand & Arm Kink, M/M, Paddling, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Shared Memory Palace, Spanking, Stockings, hannibal's office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: “Be naked when I get home,” Hannibal says, and the order goes straight to Will’s cock, stokes the growing fire in his gut.Before he can censor himself, Will asks, “Or what?”The line goes uncomfortably silent for entirely too long. Hannibal isn’t saying a word; this is beyond humiliating. Will shouldn’t have said anything, should have bitten his tongue with the teeth Hannibal likes so much, should—“Will.” More numbing quiet. “Will, are you wanting to be punished?”





	What You Aren't Wearing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sirenja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenja/gifts), [Chifuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/gifts).



> So [sirenja-and-the-stag](sirenja-and-the-stag.tumblr.com) made [this gifset](https://sirenja-and-the-stag.tumblr.com/post/164533161003/naughty-murder-husbands-more-murder-husbands-in), to which [staticraining](http://staticraining.tumblr.com) contributed a naughty line, and then I wrote this naughty fic.
> 
> Yup. That's about the long and short of it. Enjoy your smut! <3

Will hates it when Hannibal has to attend conferences, but it’s an expected aspect of his work, to travel and present papers. He isn’t worried about Hannibal being captured; they’ve been declared dead for several years now, and Hannibal’s style has become far less formal. His preferred manner of dress (three plaids, a paisley, and an ostentatious tie) has been relegated to special occasions, much to Hannibal’s chagrin and Will’s amusement.

Well. More than amusement, Will supposes.

Hannibal wears his hair longer, though still parted and pulled back neatly, just enough to provide the illusion of his former mode. He still wears his crisp shirts, but they’re unbuttoned at the collar, no large Windsor knot to block the view. The tailored pants are ever-present, but there’s no pattern or matching jacket—sometimes a waistcoat, if he feels the occasion warrants. Hannibal always rolls his sleeves up neatly, just below his elbows, and Will can never decide if he looks more like he’s perpetually prepared for the kitchen or if Hannibal is about to climb into the back of an ambulance and make Will fall in love with him for the first time all over again.

Honestly, as long as Hannibal keeps dressing like he’s two seconds away from pushing Will to his knees, then Will doesn’t care which.

His cock stirs in his boxer briefs, like it does every time Will thinks about Hannibal’s strong arms, and the way his veins stand out when he works, and the flex of his fingers as he draws. Will flops himself back onto the bed, still wearing his own button-up, pants crumpled on the floor because Hannibal isn’t here to fuss at him, and now Will’s  _ picturing _ Hannibal fussing at him, and that’s not helping the situation, at all.

Hannibal didn’t expressly tell Will not to touch himself while he was gone, because he doesn’t dominate Will like that. Will likes to pretend he does, though, not that he’d ever bring it up to Hannibal, how it thrills him when Hannibal instructs him in the kitchen and directs him during a hunt. For some reason Will doesn’t understand, it’s impossible to tell Hannibal what he wants—no,  _ craves. _

Maybe Will doesn’t want to disturb the status quo. More likely, he’s afraid of how far Hannibal might go. What liberties he might take. Will knows Hannibal wouldn’t hurt him; that doesn’t make courting what once was disaster any easier.

Tonight, however, feels different. This is the longest they’ve been apart since the fall, a week-long conference, and Will’s losing it. Right now, he thinks he’d let Hannibal do anything as long as he touched him.

Will closes his eyes. It’s so easy to walk into Hannibal’s old office and lie down on the chaise lounge. He stretches out, head on his own pillow, and watches the stag run outside the Baltimore windows like a zoetrope.

The phone rings out in the waiting room; in the Norman Chapel; in their bedroom.

He gropes around on the bedside table until he finds his cell, and of  _ course _ it’s Hannibal, of  _ course _ he would call right now, like he has a direct feed to Will’s brain. “Hello, stranger.”

“Good evening, Will.” It’s impossible to tell if Hannibal’s smiling or not; Will figures not. “How was your day?”

“Uneventful,” says Will. “The highlight was a woman with a bad dye job telling me that card catalogues were far superior and that libraries don’t need coffee shops.”

“She’s right.”

Will sighs. “I knew you’d say that.” He scratches his stomach idly. “Flying home tonight?”

“Unfortunately, no,” and Hannibal’s irritation is far more audible than his happiness. “The flight was delayed. It’s been rescheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Dammit. What time do you think you’ll be back?”

“No later than nine, assuming the airline is competent tomorrow.” Hannibal sounds so put out that Will can’t help but laugh. “I fail to see the humor in this situation,” he says. “It’s been too long.”

“Six days and seventeen hours,” Will tells him. “I’ve hated every minute of it.”

“Surely you were able to keep yourself busy.” The purr in Hannibal’s voice, the lowered tone—Hannibal knows it drives Will up the wall in the best of ways. Will shifts on the bed, feeling the drag of cotton across his cock.

“I prefer your hands,” admits Will, “though I’m quickly growing tempted to use mine.”

“All week? Given your usual insatiability, I find that very difficult to believe.” He pauses. “I’ve waited myself. Whenever I imagine your body against mine, I miss you too greatly to continue.”

“That’s so sweet, it might rot my teeth out,” Will says, chuckling as much as he dares.

“I would miss those, as well,” says Hannibal. “Your teeth and tongue and mouth. The pressure you exert on my fingers when my other hand is likewise inside you.”

“Is this going to be that kind of phone call?”

Hannibal exhales through his nose. “No, I’m afraid. It’s much later here than it is there.”

“Tease.”

“I am as much a mirror of your arousal as you are of mine.”

Will rolls his eyes; the week apart has done nothing to change Hannibal’s tendency toward bedroom psychoanalysis. “I  _ suppose _ I can wait a few more hours.”

“Be naked when I get home,” Hannibal says, and the order goes straight to Will’s cock, stokes the growing fire in his gut.

Before he can censor himself, Will asks, “Or what?”

The line goes uncomfortably silent for entirely too long. Hannibal isn’t saying a word; this is beyond humiliating. Will shouldn’t have said anything, should have bitten his tongue with the teeth Hannibal likes so much, should—

“Will.” More numbing quiet. “Will, are you wanting to be punished?”

“Fuck.” His eyelids flutter shut. No better time for honesty, apparently. “Yes. If you think I deserve it, anyway.”

“You’re frequently deserving of it. Speaking back to me; being rude. Though you are also obedient, when asked to comply. Until now.”

_ Inhale. Exhale. _ “Did you already know?”

“I had my suspicions,” says Hannibal, “but was hesitant to push, given our history together.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should ask, either; it’s not something I’ve ever thought of, not before you.” Will unnecessarily pushes his hand through his hair. “I’m not exactly a—a  _ kinky _ person.”

“I can’t imagine so. But you do long for a strong hand, don’t you?” Hannibal's breath puffs static into the phone before he adds, “You require discipline.”

Will allows himself a small groan, and listens to Hannibal’s breathing immediately pick up.

“That sounds like confirmation.”

“It’s  _ definitely _ confirmation.”

“Good.” For once, Will can discern Hannibal’s microsmile. “Tell me, Will: what are you  _ not _ wearing?”

That’s a decidedly odd way to start what wasn’t supposed to be this kind of phone call. “I took off my shoes, socks, and pants. That’s as far as I got before I wanted to lay down.”

“Put your socks back on.”

_ What. _ “What?”

“This is what I was saying,” Hannibal starts. “Your sass. It’s tiring.”

Will scoffs. “You love my sass.”

“I believe I’ll love punishing you for it more. Have you chosen to comply yet?”

“I’m getting them.” He can’t help the impatience that creeps into his voice.

“Did you fold them neatly, or are they bunched up haphazardly on the floor?”

“The usual,” says Will cheekily, pulling a dress sock over his toes. The cotton-nylon blend feels cool on his foot, and he’s suddenly reminded of actual nylons, like the thigh-highs Molly wore on their first official, fancy-ish date.

“Isn’t that naughty of you.” Hannibal’s words drip with authoritative possession. It makes Will’s forearm pause against his cock, fingers frozen on the top edge of his sock. “What are you thinking about? No lies, please.”

“More things I’ve never considered until approximately fifteen seconds ago.”

“Such as?”

Will uncrosses his legs, the underside of his knee hitting the edge of the bed, then recrosses them the other way. He kind of wants to keep kicking them, to just let them dangle, but as to  _ why, _ Will has no clue. “My sock. It feels nice,” he says. “That’s all.”

“I thought I told you no lying.” The dominance in Hannibal’s voice is more prominent; Will feels more like prey than usual. “That includes omissions of truth.”

“God, women’s hose, alright? It just made me curious when I put my socks back on, considering what we’re doing.”

Hannibal hums thoughtfully. “And what is it that we're doing?”

_ “Phone sex, _ Hannibal.” It shouldn’t be this embarrassing to talk about. Will isn’t some pubescent teenager, and he’s done this before. “Why the hell do you want me to have my socks on, anyway?” asks Will. He feels so defensive right now, and conflicted, and grumpy about his flagging erection.

“Because they are comforting,” Hannibal explains. “When a person feels safe and soothed, they relax, thus making for a more satisfactory orgasm.” He diverts again. “You would look delectable in stockings, I think. We’ll have to test it.”

Will tries, again, to keep his own breathing steady. He fails. “I might be amenab—”

“You will be.”

_ “Fuck.” _

“You keep saying that,” notes Hannibal.

“Because you keep hitting my buttons.”

“That you never told me about.” His voice is tantalizing, runs straight from Will’s ears to his cock, and his erection isn’t flagging anymore. “Why don’t you lie back down on my chaise lounge, like you were when I called.”

Will switches his phone to speaker and sets it on Hannibal’s pillow. “So you’ve been watching.”

“You think loudly,” Hannibal says, “especially in my office. But you never think to look up to the mezzanine.”

“Quite the voyeuristic streak you have there, Dr. Lecter.”

“Cheeky boy.” His voice is warm, but it’s much cooler when he tells Will to, “Lie back down.” So Will does, of course—why wouldn’t he?—expecting Hannibal to wait for him to keep being cheeky, but Hannibal continues. “I want you to unbutton your shirt. Close your eyes; imagine it’s my hand.”

“Gladly,” says Will, and he does, looking up at Hannibal, then asks, “How do you see me?”

“In your favorite work shirt, unbuttoned, chest bare to me. The cotton boxer briefs you insist on wearing.” His smile grows slightly wider. “And I was correct, Will; your legs are magnificent in those stockings.” Hannibal leans over Will, straddling him, one knee balanced next to the outside of Will’s thigh, the other planted firmly between Will’s spread legs. His hands grip the sides of the chaise lounge, and the overt show of physical strength makes Will’s heart race.

“I can feel them,” Will whispers. “Silky. Smooth.” He bites his lips, realizing, “My legs are shaved, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes.” Hannibal looks down at him warmly. “You’re especially beautiful like this, straddling the line between the accepted masculine and feminine. A perfect dichotomy.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Touch yourself,” says Hannibal. “However you like. And I’ll tell you what I intend to do with you once I get home.”

Will’s nodding frantically, hands shaking as he drags his palms down his neck and along his collarbones, trying to skim over his chest before Hannibal notices and intervenes. It doesn’t matter, though; he’s already so aroused that his nipples are piqued, tight buds, no rubbing or pinching needed.

“Have you ever been spanked, Will?”

“Not—not,  _ mmm, _ in the way you’re thinking.” There’s a damp spot on his briefs that Will can’t help but touch, circling it and prodding it with his finger, making his cock twitch.

Hannibal’s voice lowers to a gravel. “Have you ever thought of  _ me _ spanking you?”

“Yes.” His ribs tickle as Will traces them, but he likes that, too.

“With my hands?”

“Some—sometimes, oh  _ fuck.” _ Will’s nails are just this edge of too sharp, leaving red lines along the bones.

“Why, Will.” He swears he can feel Hannibal’s breath on the side of his face as he leans closer to speak into his ear. “I thought you said you weren’t interested in kink.”

“It’s curiosity,” says Will, gasping as he presses against his cock with the heel of his hand. “I’ve never had pain turn pleasurable. The...rest of it, that’s too much.”

“Beyond my direction, that is.”

Will hums; it’s so much nicer than he had expected it to be, to bring it to light, to reality.

“So it is the experience that intrigues you, which you fantasize about.” Hannibal pushes himself back to standing only to take a knee beside the chaise lounge, and Will misses the imagined opportunity of Hannibal’s waistcoat brushing his bare skin. “Look at me,” he says, and Will hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes. Hannibal’s are open wide, however, dark from the enlargement of his pupils, and his face looks nearly as flushed as Will’s feels.

“The first time,” murmurs Hannibal, “I would use nothing more than my hand, because it isn’t especially about hurting you. It would bother you when you sat, of course, remind you who you’d disobeyed. I wouldn’t let you find release from it. You might find it pleasurable, lying there over my knee, but that would be nothing but incidental. How does that sound so far?”

Will squeezes his cock; he hasn’t even taken it out of his underwear. “Good,” he chokes out. “Really good.”

“After some time, once you had grown accustomed to being disciplined and when your behavior warranted, I think I would paddle you. Start with something solid—nothing rabbit fur-soft or padded. That should be saved for gentler times, because it’s something you  _ would _ enjoy, pretty thing, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” He begins to stroke himself, still over the cotton; it’s unfathomable, not waiting for Hannibal to touch his bare cock.

“We’d work up to something nicer, something that would leave more than warmth and a sting.” Hannibal makes a small sound of his own, barely audible over Will's heaving breaths, and Will is gratified to know he isn’t the only one affected by this. “Maybe one with holes.”

Will’s shocked silent and jack-knifes with a jerk as he comes hot and sticky, pooling on his skin, shooting to hit the barrier of the elastic waistband of his boxers.

“Beautiful,” says Hannibal, followed by, “I miss you more now than I already did.”

“Miss you.” Will lies there, panting. “But home soon?”

“With a present, I think.” Hannibal’s eyes follow the length of Will’s leg. “If you’re good, of course.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

There’s no reason to stay in Hannibal’s office any longer, to listen to the dampened sound of hooves outside. The unfinished business from the past—the debauching of Hannibal’s chaise lounge—is finished in the present. Will would like to come back here in the future, though. He’s set enough sexual fantasies here to last the two of them a few years, if not longer.

“Are you still there?”

“Mmhmm.” Will knows he should undress and at least get his clothes to the hamper, but he’s just so damn comfortable. There’ll be time in the morning. “We both need to get to sleep.”

“I agree entirely. But Will?”

His eyelids are heavy, limbs loose, heartbeat beginning to slow. “Yeah?”

“Be naked when I get home.”

**Author's Note:**

> [[aesthetic post on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/164696354634/what-you-arent-wearing-by-shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


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